


hard knocks

by alessandriana



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21578470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alessandriana/pseuds/alessandriana
Summary: Jack struggled to lift his head. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. But he recognized that figure. "Carter," he rasped."Yes, that's me, now if you could just--" Peggy paused and leaned around the corner-- they were in a hallway? where? it looked like an old factory-- and knocked off a few shots. Her gun clicked empty, and she shoved it in her waistband with a frustrated moue. She leaned back, threw Jack's arm over her shoulder, and said,"Go."
Relationships: Peggy Carter & Jack Thompson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 83





	hard knocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sholio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/gifts).



> At the beginning of October I had [an open post](https://alessandriana.dreamwidth.org/145039.html) where people could ask me about certain of my favorite h/c tropes, and in exchange for listening to me natter on, could maybe get "a hundred words or so" of fic featuring them. Sholio asked me about head injuries and vomiting, and, well, it's a good thing I said "or so", because 3000 words later, here we are...

Jack woke up.

Someone was shouting, and there was the sound of gunfire, and his head was killing him, and for a moment it was _1945, Japan, rifle fire kicking up arcs of white sand as he ran for the treeline--_

Over the ringing in his ears he heard a voice snap in a familiar English accent, "Jack Thompson, _kindly_ start moving, would you? I can't carry you and shoot at the same time."

Jack struggled to lift his head. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. But he recognized that figure. "Carter," he rasped.

"Yes, that's me, now if you could just--" Peggy paused and leaned around the corner-- they were in a hallway? where? it looked like an old factory-- and knocked off a few shots. Her gun clicked empty, and she shoved it in her waistband with a frustrated moue. She leaned back, threw Jack's arm over her shoulder, and said, _"Go."_

That tone of voice went straight past the pounding in Jack's head to the part of him that had survived basic training, and he managed to get his feet under him, though the effort made his vision go staticky.

A hell of a lot of running and ducking later, Jack found himself hiding in a janitor's closet, pressed up against Peggy's side and swallowing heavily as bile tried to crawl up the back of his throat. At least it was darker in here, the only light what filtered in through a small window in the outside wall and cast everything in shades of gray.

Peggy glanced down at him and frowned at what she saw. "If you throw up on me, I will save our assailants the trouble and kill you myself," she warned in a low voice. But she didn't push him away.

"...you might be doing me a favor," Jack managed. He breathed carefully through his nose, and while the nausea roiling his stomach didn't get any better, it didn't get any worse, either.

Footsteps-- several someones wearing heavy boots-- sounded in the corridor outside. Jack and Peggy froze, but they were moving at a rapid clip and didn't stop. Silence descended again, and gradually they were able to relax, once it seemed no one else was following the first.

"I left the door to the outside open. Hopefully they think we've run for it," Peggy said in a bare whisper. "Maybe they'll spend the evening searching the mountains, and get eaten by those coyotes we heard earlier; it would serve them right."

Jack struggled to push himself upright, using the wall as leverage. He gave it up as a bad idea when the world started swimming again. "Uh," he said. "This isn't going to sound great, but... who exactly are we running from?" He closed his eyes, sagging further onto Peggy's shoulder. "And where exactly are we?"

He could feel Peggy's attention on him even with his eyes closed. "What's the last thing you remember?" she asked, shifting her arm to support him better.

Jack swallowed, wracking his brains. "...I flew out Tuesday. Bumpy flights, but the food was good. Showed up at the office Wednesday morning; you and Daniel were there, working on something..." He grasped for further details, but they slid through his fingers like sand. Trying to remember was making his head hurt like a vise tightening, and there was an iron taste on the back of his tongue. "Something about a car bomb?"

Peggy had gone very still against him. "Jack, that was two days ago."

Jack winced, a pit yawning open in his stomach. "Fantastic."

"...I'm sure it'll come back. Why don't you just rest for a bit? We're not in any hurry, it seems."

The feeling in his stomach was less a pit, actually, and more an imminent warning sign. Jack swallowed heavily, swallowed again. "I would, but, uh. Do you think you could find a bucket somewhere in this mess?"

"Oh, hell." He expected a sarcastic comment, but instead Peggy just reached out and unearthed one from somewhere.

It smelled strongly of bleach, as Jack discovered with his head down in it.

Several miserable minutes later-- for the record, it was difficult to throw up quietly, but he did his best-- Peggy helped him lean back against the wall and handed him a paint-stained rag to wipe his mouth with. He was shivering with reaction, though the room was warm.

"You're not very squeamish," he said, tossing the rag in the general direction of the used bucket. (He missed.)

"What, for a woman?" Peggy's tone was light, but her face was serious as she leaned over him. She felt gently along the side of his head-- Jack made an involuntary noise as she located the lump just past his hairline, flinching away from the sick white-hot flash of agony. "Sorry, sorry." 

Jack had to just sit there and breath for a long moment, waiting for the pain to subside. When it didn't hurt quite so much to exist, he said, "No... just in general. 'm a... sympathetic puker." He'd probably be embarrassed at the admission later, but, well, he could blame it on the head injury.

Peggy put a careful hand on his cheek, using her her thumb to pull back one eyelid, then the other. When she was done she left her hand there for a moment. Jack couldn't help but lean into her touch, just a little. "Well, then it's convenient that you're the one with the concussion, not I," she said. 

When she spoke again, he could hear the thin thread of worry in her voice. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your eyes open, Jack."

He blinked them open again-- he hadn't realized they'd closed-- and tried to marshal his strength. He felt shaky, weak. To distract himself, he asked, "So-- what's your grand plan for getting us out of this one, Marge?"

"Well." She pulled her hand back and settled into a seated position against the wall next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched. "We could make a run for it, try and get to the car. But I'm out of bullets, the car is on the other side of the facility, and frankly, you don't seem to be up to dodging gangsters."

Jack frowned. "This is all about gangsters? Really?"

Peggy sighed. "Gangsters who got ahold of Hydra technology, yes." She added, "We managed to trace them to this facility after they used it to take out one of their major rivals-- the car bomb you remember. Except it wasn't a bomb, precisely, but... that's not terribly relevant at the moment, they don't seem to have it here."

She was leaving a lot out, and if this had been a mission report he'd've called her on it, but at the moment he appreciated the brevity. "So, no running through the mountains. Any chance of backup?" A question occurred to him, rather belatedly. "Where's Daniel in all this? And the rest of the office?"

"Running down a lead on the other side of town," Peggy said. "This was _supposed_ to just be an information gathering mission; our intel indicated the gangsters use this facility as storage, not as a hideout. But they must have relocated here after the car bomb ended up drawing so much attention." She dug through her purse-- how she'd managed to keep it on her throughout the gunfight, while carting him around, Jack couldn't imagine-- and pulled out several shattered fragments of plastic and metal. "Sadly, my radio met a rather unfortunate end earlier."

Jack patted his pockets; if he'd brought a radio with him, it had disappeared along the way. But if they were still inside the city limits... "Think this place is connected to the phone system?"

Peggy hesitated. "I think... it might be hard to find one. If they have one, it's probably in their main office here."

Jack sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, careful of the bruises. "And you don't want to leave the poor concussed bastard alone while you sneak around," he summarized, trying-- and failing-- not to let the bitterness creep into his voice. He hated being infirm-- six months of recovery after getting shot had only reinforced that.

Peggy hummed noncommittally. Jack recognized that tone from his recovery, too, from the times his self-pity had gotten the better of him.

"Well, you're probably right." Jack closed his eyes, let his head tip back. The vertigo was harder to ignore that way, but it was also easier on his eyes, and on his head.

Peggy's silence grew suspicious.

"However..." Jack said into the darkness, "the longer you wait, the longer it'll be before the poor, concussed bastard gets to a hospital. I mean, what if he's bleeding into his brain?"

Peggy sighed. "Your pupils are equal in size, and you don't seem any more confused than usual, despite the memory loss. I don't think you're dying."

Jack cracked an eye. "But you don't know that for sure, not until I get under an x-ray machine."

A muscle jumped in Peggy's jaw. He wasn't saying anything she hadn't already been thinking.

Jack asked, "You didn't answer my question earlier. How long until backup gets here?"

Peggy glanced away, and she said, "At least another hour before they even start looking for us. We'd already searched most of the place, and I'd radioed back that the facility was uninhabited, before the gangsters returned. Once the SSR notices... at least a half hour before anyone could possibly get from headquarters to out here."

Jack winced. "Minimum hour and a half? That's a long time, Marge."

"I'm well aware of that, thank you."

There was another silence, though not a very long one. It was Peggy, and Peggy wasn't very good at waiting. She said, "You'll have to promise me you'll stay awake. No passing out just because I've left."

Jack suppressed a smile. "Cross my heart," he drawled.

"And hope to die? I think not."

"Well what do you want, a pinky promise?"

She glared at him and muttered something under her breath; Jack caught the word _childish._ "Just _go_ , Peggy," he said, before the conversation could degrade further.

"I am." Standing, she grabbed a paint can off the shelf. "Should make a decent percussive weapon," she explained at his baffled look, and hefted it meaningfully.

She listened at the door for a moment; hearing nothing, she twisted open the door knob silently, and-- with one final look at Jack-- was gone. Silence filled the room.

Jack sighed, slumping further down the wall.

His head was pounding. His mouth tasted terrible.

It really was very, very quiet.

***

"Jack, I swear to God, if you've gone and-- ah, _there_ you are."

There was satisfaction and something he thought might be relief in Peggy's voice. Jack tried to push her hand away and groaned as the motion reawakened a whole host of aches and pains. Peggy was silhouetted in the light of the doorway, sporting a new black eye and several bruises, and missing the right arm of her blouse. She'd set the paint can on the floor next to her covered with a few new dents and something that could have been, but probably wasn't, red paint.

"I thought you said you weren't going to pass out," she said, crossly.

"And what, you believed me?" Jack tried to push himself off the floor and mostly failed. His mouth was dry and tasted like something had died in it. What he wouldn't give for a toothbrush...

Peggy huffed, and gave him a hand. "I thought you'd at least _try_."

"Shoulda taken me up on that pinky promise." When he was something more resembling upright, Jack asked again, "ETA on backup?"

"Five minutes at most." At Jack's startled look, Peggy grinned and said, "Daniel and his team were already on their way, apparently. They found a few gangsters at their location who, after some creative persuasion, mentioned the rest of their group had headed this direction..."

"Oh, good." Jack let his head fall back the wall, unwilling to admit how relieved he was.

There was a noise out in the corridor, a quiet footfall. Before Jack could even react Peggy had grabbed the paint can and slipped out in the hallway.

He heard a gunshot, and then several loud concussive noises, as he struggled to get to his feet.

A few seconds later Peggy stepped back in. The paint can had acquired more dents. "That _should_ be the last of them," she said, with a satisfied expression.

Jack sank back, heart rate slowing. "You're a real artist with that, Marge," he said.

Peggy's expression shifted into a smirk. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Good, 'cause it was intended as one."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, my. You _are_ concussed."

Jack made a rude hand gesture in her general direction. Then he pushed against the wall, trying to get up, more carefully this time. "Look, help me stand, would you? I'd prefer not to get caught hiding in a closet when backup gets here."

He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his tone, the awareness that he'd been pretty damn useless this whole adventure. Peggy picked up on it of course, perceptive as ever, and her expression softened.

As she leaned forward to get an arm around his shoulder, she said, "Do you remember how you got injured?"

Jack managed, "I have... absolutely no memory of the last two days, Peggy."

Peggy hauled him higher. Jack hung on, waiting for the room to stop spinning. "You and I were on the factory floor, clearing one of the back rooms. It was soundproofed, and the door was stuck partially shut," she said, in measured tones. Jack closed his eyes, breathing raggedly. "I had no idea anyone had arrived until I looked up and saw a man pointing a gun at my head. His finger was tightening on the trigger, and there was no way I was going to be able to dodge in time."

Jack managed a grunt. Peggy kept her arm around him, and gradually the world steadied. "You were closer," she continued, "and you stepped between us and grabbed the gun without a thought. Disarmed him quite neatly before he could get the shot off. I was impressed."

Jack squinted at her. There was a key part of this story missing. "And?" he asked.

"...And then the guy behind him hit you with a blackjack," Peggy added. "But really, it's the thought that counts."

From outside came the crunch of tires on gravel. Jack and Peggy both tensed until they heard a car door open and close, and the distinctive sound of Daniel's voice, intermingled with those of several other people.

Jack straightened, pushing carefully away from Peggy until he was standing on his own. He managed a half smile. "Maybe we'll lead with that, eh?" He nudged the bucket towards the back of the closet. "No need to mention this whole part of the story."

Peggy's answering smile was warm. "I'm quite sure we'll be far too busy rounding up any remaining gangsters to discuss it," she said.

A nearby door slammed open.

"Peggy! Jack!" That was Daniel, sounding worried and furious. "Where are you-- oh. Hey there." There was the sound of something being poked with a crutch, and a low groan. "Peggy, I know you're somewhere around here."

"In here, Daniel." With one last squeeze of Jack's arm, Peggy stepped out into the hallway. Jack followed, much more slowly, holding onto the wall but mostly upright. He had to squint against the light as it spiked pain through his head, but was treated to the sight of a gangster sprawled in the hallway, clutching a freely bleeding wound on his forehead. Jack hoped, viciously, that it hurt as much as his did.

Daniel looked up from greeting Peggy to see Jack, and couldn't hide the concern on his face. "Geez, Jack--"

"--I look like shit, I know." Jack leaned carefully against the doorframe, trying for casual, having made it as far as he felt he could reasonably get. He closed his eyes. "Mind sparing a ride to the hospital for an old friend?"

"He's concussed," Peggy confided.

"Yeah, I can see that." Daniel shouted over his shoulder, "Mitchell, Everheart! Get over here, would you? We've got a guy to arrest!"

"There's two more in the main office, two on the factory floor, and one in the hallway between here and there," Peggy added, as the agents jogged up. "And three or four running around outside, if they didn't take off when they saw you coming."

Daniel nodded. "Alright. Mitchell, you're in charge of the scene. Everheart--" he rattled off his orders, and Jack let the words wash over him, fatigue turning it into a meaningless stream of sound. He startled at the sudden touch on his arm, and opened his eyes to realized the other agents-- and the injured gangster-- had cleared out already.

"C'mon," Daniel said, brows furrowed with concern. "There's a car right outside. I'll drive you myself."

"You don't need to stay here to secure the scene?" Jack asked, letting Daniel take his arm. Peggy took the other. They steered him towards the door.

"Nah, Mitchell and the rest are competent, they can take care of it." Daniel's voice turned wry. "Besides, I think most of it has been 'secured' already."

Jack felt a reluctant grin pull at his mouth. "That was all Peggy. Ask her about the paint can."

Jack could feel Daniel's sigh. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"Jack got one of them," Peggy put in brightly, and held the door open for them. Jack had to screw his eyes shut as the California sun drilled straight through his skull.

"Car's this way... c'mon. All right, watch your head." Jack sank into the back seat, nearly groaning in relief as he entered the shade. Peggy slid in next to him, and Daniel shut the door and got into the front seat. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen; I'll be your driver for the evening... Next stop, Los Angeles County Hospital."

Jack laughed, though it hurt. "You need an English accent to really pull that off," he rasped. The car jerked into motion and he winced, bracing himself against seat in front of him.

"Here, lean on me, Jack." Peggy wrapped an arm around him, and he hurt too much to protest. He leaned into her. After a moment, he turned so his forehead rested against the curve of her shoulder. It was the side where the sleeve had torn off, so it was half soft cotton, half bare skin. Her hair tickled the back of his neck. The rumbling of the car engine settled as they pulled out onto the road, and the noise lulled him gradually towards unconsciousness, exhaustion and pain weighing down his limbs until they felt filled with lead.

"How's he doing?" he heard Daniel ask quietly.

Peggy rubbed his back, up and down. "Blackjacks are nasty, and he's got some memory loss, but I think he'll be alright." Up and down. Her voice went softer. "I thought he was dead at first, when he went down. He was so still..."

"But he got up again?"

"But he got up again," Peggy confirmed. "He's pretty good at that."

Jack let himself drift off to the sound of their voices.


End file.
